Freya’s POV


    The rain had already begun to fall by the time I reached the Whitmor estate.


    Finished


    Ashbourne’s skies were a dull, oppressive gray, pressing down on the earth like the weight of old grief. Each drop of water carried with it the taste of iron and storm, a scent my wolf disliked. Rain always left me restless, and tonight it seemed to mirror the heaviness in my chest.


    Kade’s car slowed to a stop outside the gates of Ss’s residence. He had insisted on driving me here before returning to the Capital, though I could see the unspoken worry in his gaze.


    He was leaving. <b>I </b>would remain in Ashbourne, at least for a while longer.


    My parents affairs were nearly settled now. Their assets, theirnd, their legacy–all sorted piece by piece. Thest remaining task was the old family house in the small town where they had once built a life together. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to walk through those doors yet. Not without Eric. My brother and I would face that house together, when I found him.


    JUntil then. I had ced the more personal relics–their books, their journals, the furniture marked with the lines of my


    childhood–inside the apartment in the city. Sometimes, when I entered that space, the air would warp with memory, and I could almost see it: my parents at the dinner table, Ericughing at some foolish jest of mine, all of us gathered as if the war had never imed what it did.


    And then my throat would tighten, eyes stinging.


    I knew what others refused to say aloud: peace was never free. If the world wished for still waters, it required someone to carry the weight of the storm. My parents had carried it willingly, their lives traded for the safety of others.


    I would walk the same road. That was the Bloodmoon oath, Stormveil’s creed, and the Thorne family’s inheritance.


    When the car rolled to a stop, I touched Kade’s arm lightly. “It’s far enough. You don’t need to go further.”


    He looked at me for a long moment, his silver eyes catching a glimmer of the stormlight. Then he reached behind his seat, pulled out a ck umbre, and pressed it into my hand.


    “Take it,” he said. “The rain is only going to worsen.”


    I shook my head faintly. “The house is only a short run. I’ll manage. And I’d rather not hold on to your things–returning itter would be troublesome.”


    But Kade only smiled, that stubborn, knowing curve of his lips. “Then return it to me in the Capital. Consider it a promise, Freya. Keep it until then.”


    His words were quiet, but there was weight behind them, the kind wolves ced in unspoken bonds.


    I hesitated before nodding. “Very well. I’ll keep it safe until then.”


    The satisfaction in his smile made something in my chest twist.


    I stepped out into the storm, opened the umbre, and watched his car vanish down the road. His scent faded with the hum of the engine, leaving me alone in the gray curtain of rain.


    I turned toward the estate.


    And froze.


    A figure stood beneath the old oak at the edge of the courtyard, drenched in rain.


    Tall Broad–shouldered. Still as stone.


    Alpha Ss.


    The rain carved lines across his face, running down the strong nes of his jaw, dripping from the ends of his dark hair stered against his cheeks. His shirt–white, or it had been–clung to him like a second skin, soaked through.


    607 <b>AM </b>P <b>P </b>


    Finished


    “Ss?” My voice cut through the storm, sharp with disbelief. “Why are you standing out here like this?”


    Slowly, his head turned. His eyes, ck as nightfall, found me beneath the shelter of my umbre.


    “You’re back,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraped across stone,


    There was no trace of the Irond Alpha in his stance now, no armor of control or supremacy. He looked fragile, breakable, like a wolf on the verge of shattering.


    I remembered that morning, when we’d eaten breakfast together. He had been calm then, measured. Almost himself. What had happened between then and now to strip him down to this rawness?


    “Yes,” I answered, stepping closer. “I came back.”


    I raised the umbre higher, shifting it to cover him as well as myself. The rain hammered against the canopy, relentless.


    “The storm will only worsen. Come inside.”


    But he did not move. His gaze had drifted away, back to the oak tree. His lips parted again, barely above a whisper.


    Do you know… my mother loved this tree.”


    The words startled me. “Your mother?”


    “She used to climb it. Always higher, always reaching for the horizon.” His voice trembled faintly. “She wanted to escape this ce. But she couldn’t. My father caged her here. No matter how she reached for freedom, she was trapped.”


    My chest tightened.


    “Ss…”


    “I am not my father,” he said suddenly, fiercely. His voice cut through the rain like a de. “I will never be him.”


    “Yes.” I nodded without hesitation.


    His head snapped toward me, eyes sharp, searching. “You believe that?”


    I met his gaze without flinching. “I do. I believe you.”


    Something passed through his expression then, something raw and wounded. For so long he had been forced to hear the whispers that he bore Whitmor’s blood, that one day he would descend into the same abyss of madness. That he would be a monster.


    But I knew what I saw before me now: a man fighting that shadow with everything in him.


    “You’re drenched,” I said, gentler now. “If you stay out here, you’ll fall ill. Come inside.“.


    I took a step forward, my free hand lifting to reach him. Still he did not move.


    So I closed the distance myself, fingers closing firmly around his wrist. His skin was ice beneath the rain, but the strength in his arm was undeniable.


    “Enough,” I said, and tugged him toward the house.


    For a moment, he simply stared at my hand around his, as though no one had ever dared pull him forward before. Then, slowly, he followed.


    The rain above drummed against the umbre in steady rhythm, a heartbeat echoing overhead.


    I felt his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting.


    He was staring at our joined hands. His wererger than mine, calloused with the marks of war andmand. My fingers- smaller, roughened by training and work–wrapped tight around his, not delicate but certain, grounded.


    Strength meeting strength.


    And for the first time that night, I thought perhaps he truly believed me.


    Send <b>Gifts </b>